Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

Flying through the air with the greatest of ease.

Posted on by

Before we left on our trip, a friend of mine told me that her favourite part about any holiday is being on the plane, heading towards the destination, because at that point the trip is just beginning and all the fun is ahead of you.  I agreed with the sentiment, but I can’t say the flight is my favourite part.  Even though flying requires almost no effort on my part, I always board the aircraft looking fresh, with lipgloss and brushed hair, and exit the aircraft looking like I’ve been on a bender: raccoon eyes, unkempt and partially flattened hair, sweaty, crazed expression on face.  Why is that?

Before:

After:
 
Note the Hawaiian shirt.  Festive! 
Our flight was scheduled to leave at 8:20 am, and so we were at the airport by six, only to find out that US Customs had changed their policy, and so instead of checking in, going through customs, and then hanging out at the other side of the airport drinking coffee and watching the kids go insane, we had to stand in a gigantic, winding-around-the-airport lineup, until the customs people called our flight number.  Then everyone on the flight would go through customs at the same time.  Why did we need to get there so early, then?  It’s anyone’s guess.  Attention US Customs: this is a very poor system.  This is a very poor system because there is zero communication between customs and the airport, it seems, and so customs had no idea – so they say – of passenger volumes.  We got through customs after 8:00.  We stood in line for over two hours, which wasn’t that big of a deal, but it was kind of irritating.  It meant our flight was an hour and a half late taking off, which, again, was not a big deal for me but I did feel sorry for the people with babies in the lineup.  I also felt profoundly annoyed with the middle-aged couple behind me who complained incessantly.  Yes, we’re in a lineup, but CONSTANT COMPLAINING IS NOT HELPING THE SITUATION.  The woman kept threatening to write strongly-worded letters to everyone from the airport staff to the president of the United States.  “This is just a total nightmare!” she moaned.  Really?  Annoying, yes.  But if my worst nightmare involves me getting on a flight to Maui within a couple of hours, I think I can take it.  This, plus the very dissatisfied babies in the lineup, led to a travel epiphany for me: I would much, much rather hear screaming babies than the sound of complaints, especially complaints from the privileged and entitled.
Instead of drinking coffee on the other side of the airport, we had a picnic of sorts in our giant lineup.  I need to give a (completely unsponsored) shout out to Tim Horton’s.  For the price of two lattes and a bottled water at Starbucks, I bought the following items at Tim Horton’s: two large coffees, two bottles of water, two cranberry-blueberry bran muffins, one chocolate chip cookie, one sprinkled doughnut, and two fruit-and-yogurt parfaits.  Amazing, right?  Hooray for Canada!
Once we got on the plane, I found myself to be profoundly drained, perhaps from all the negativity, or perhaps from saying “I’m not sure how much longer, sweetie” a million times.  The kids immediately immersed themselves in games of Angry Birds and downloaded episodes of Scooby Doo on the iPad.  I, on the other hand, stared at the seatback for three hours straight.  Getting to the airport at six meant that I woke up only slightly earlier than I would on a normal day, but still I was strangely exhausted.  I had reading material, my notebooks, crossword puzzles, and Sudoku, and yet I stared at the seatback for three hours.  I felt like Putty from Seinfeld.  Remember that episode?  Eventually I channeled that episode in my mind and nicknamed the guy across from me “Vegetable Lasagne”.  Vegetable Lasagne was a guy in his twenties who apparently subscribed to the school of thought that says if you have to be up early in the morning, the best way to do it is to stay up all night.  Poor Vegetable Lasagne.  He spent the entire flight with his blue hoodie pulled up around his head and his sunglasses on, playing little dirt-bike racing games on his phone.  When the drink cart came around he requested a beer – hair of the dog, I guess.  I kept waiting for him to barf or something, but he made it okay.
Today is the first real back-to-reality day, as the boys are back to school, my husband is back to work, and I am back to my life of meal planning, school pickups, and figuring out who is going to volunteer for the book fair next week, OMG, I have some gaps in the schedule!   It all feels a little surreal.  For two weeks, I walked around wearing things like this:
(That picture is for my grandma.  Not that she reads my blog.  At least I hope she doesn’t.)
I mean, I walked around in that outfit, a lot.  I went to the grocery store looking like that and I was not out of place!  Today I’m wearing two sweaters and my hands are all purple and sore and I AM WEARING A BRA AND NOT A BIKINI. 
Now that I think about it, my friend was right.  I wish I was on that flight again. 

Here Today…Gone To Maui

Posted on by

In case you were wondering where I’ve been, I just got home from two weeks in the paradise that is Maui.  O-o-almost paradise!  We’re looking on heaven’s door.  Almost paradise!  How could we ask for more?

I’ve been to paradise but I’ve never been to meeeeee.

I may be a little delirious since I flew on the red-eye last night and I’m functioning on minimal sleep, people.  I’m also slightly delirious from swinging from a tropical climate to one in which my hands are already cracking, and from a lifestyle where I spent the majority of my day lounging in the sun, reading, swimming, and eating a lot to one where I discovered that I had forgotten to empty the milk before I left and came home to a festering, yet strangely empty refrigerator.  For two weeks I barely registered the day of the week and now I’m trying to come to terms with the upcoming book fair and soccer scheduling commitments.  What a buzzkill.  I’m wearing a bra for the first time in almost 16 days, for crying out loud, and I feel oddly bitter and constricted.

I feel as though I need to immediately clarify that last statement, lest you wonder who is this braless hippie who has taken over the Boyhouse?  Not to worry.  I was braless only because my upper body wardrobe was exclusively made up of bikinis and Lulu tanks, and not – absolutely not – because I decided to wander around letting it all hang out in a depressing, droopy, partially deflated water balloon kind of way.  No one needs to see that.

That settled, I love Maui.  My husband and I honeymooned – nearly ten years ago now – on the big island of Hawaii, and other than the awesome newlywedded bliss, the experience left me feeling kind of meh about Hawaiian islands. Mostly I felt uninterested except from a highly amused fashion perspective:

Do you need a closeup?
That one’s for you, Nan and Beck.  You’re welcome.
So my expectations for a Hawaiian vacation were not especially high.  HOW VERY WRONG I WAS.  From the moment I stepped off the plane, my skin plumping happily from the humidity and my purple Raynaud’s diseased hands looking and feeling like normal hands, the moment I smelled the tropical flowers blooming and felt the sun, I instantly wanted to vacation nowhere else, ever again.  Within a day, I immediately started petitioning my husband to book our vacation in Maui every year until the day I die.  I could see myself there, happily, forever, eating pineapple and doing yoga and drinking frosty beverages with little umbrellas in them. 
I was ready to trade in all my black sweaters and boots for (black) bikinis and sandals.  I even have, astonishingly enough, a suntan.  A SUNTAN, PEOPLE.  A SUNTAN.
Note: astonishing suntan may be relative.  After eleven days in the sun we went for a whale watching tour.  Prior to, I was in a long lineup for the ladies’ room, chatting with my line-mates about organizing a coup to take over the uncrowded mens’ room, when the very tanned woman behind me mentioned that perhaps I had not been in Maui very long.  After some discussion, it was discovered that we arrived on the very same day.  Well, said the very tanned woman, I have been at the beach every day.  Um, me too.  Not three hours later, we ran into my husband’s colleague and his wife, who touched my bare shoulder and asked, concerned, if I hadn’t had a chance to be out in the sun much.  I think I need to get a button that says “This IS my suntan.”
But anyway, my delirious, suntanned, bra-wearing, back-to-life-back-to-reality self now must go fold a mountain of laundry.  I have so much to tell you!  I want to know everything that happened while I was away.  Tell me everything. xoxo

It’s the least relevant day…of the year.

Posted on by


It’s Groundhog Day, or, as I like to call it, the least relevant day of the year if you live where I do. I don’t care what’s happening in the rest of the world – six more weeks of winter would be an early spring; we’ve been having unseasonably mild weather which makes me a bit superstitious that it is going to be ALL WINTRY BLASTS ALL THE TIME come April and May.

But Groundhog Day – you will be happy to know – is not just a weird, made-up holiday like you may have assumed. It actually has roots in pagan European weather lore! Good times. Despite my previous feelings that Groundhog Day is the stupidest day of the year, which was largely based on weather bitterness which I am trying to overcome by finding within me an invincible summer, I now say hooray for the groundhog! The lowly groundhog, elevated to the status of having its very own day. It’s not everyday we celebrate a rodent. We should all be happy for the groundhog.

Today is also the day Sid Vicious died, which seems a bit of a “who-gives-a-shit” piece of information, but since he overdosed on heroin to be with his beloved crazy-ass Nancy, maybe he was somehow confusing Groundhog Day with Valentine’s Day. I mean, you do that much smack in your lifetime you probably have a hard time keeping up with the calendar, you know?

Many, many of our special days have roots in pagan rituals, but not – as you likely already know – St. Valentine’s Day. St. Valentine was a Christian martyr, and I’m a little fuzzy on the details as to how his day became synonymous with love and chocolates and those cheap incarcerated teddy bears that proclaim they are prisoners of love. In any event, I am very much looking forward to Valentine’s Day this year because my kids are at the hilarious stage when talking about anything romance related has them shrieking with disgust.  It’s quite amusing.  Their teacher started a heart-themed calendar for the month of February and it’s the Worst! Calendar! Ever!  The boys have taken to bringing home Geronimo Stilton books from the library, and we have been reading them at bedtime.  There was a chapter where a female mouse VERY CREEPILY goes after Geronimo in a romantic way, and the boys were actually screaming with horror.  It was kind of horrible, come to think of it.  If there had been a gender reversal – a male character going after a female one in the same manner – there would have certainly been an uproar about it.

But alas!  This is the way of the world, it seems.  Being a mother of boys makes one acutely aware of gender bias.  Take, for example, what used to be Boy Scouts but is now just Scouts, versus Girl Guides.  It’s okay for girls to be with only girls, but not okay for boys to be with only boys, is the take-away message I am receiving.

We’ve all heard about the uproar over the new Lego line that is aimed at girls.  Personally, I looked at that line and immediately coveted all the sets for myself.  They are CUTE.  I also covet one of those Maplelea dolls – I really like Taryn.  But anyway, I think we’re all aware of the uproar about Lego, how Lego is supposed to be gender neutral, etc., etc.  I do not agree.  I think that Lego is generally marketed to boys.  Girls do play with Lego, of course, just as boys play with dolls, but predominantly those items are gender-marketed.  Is this a bad thing?  I don’t know.  We don’t live in a gender neutral world, people.  I am not saying this is right or wrong, I am saying that this is reality.

But I digress.  I am simply amused that my boys have reached the stage where little hearts cause them to make retching noises, whereas I have reached the stage where Valentine’s Day evokes feelings of the craving variety, as in chocolate and wine.  Come to think of it, perhaps chocolate and wine should be the new way to celebrate Groundhog Day!  Yes!  Let’s celebrate the groundhog with a nice glass of Shiraz and a pile of frozen York patties, shall we?

COME ON DOWN! You’re the next contestant…

Posted on by

It’s the last day of January, which feels very strange given that, with the exception of about ten days wherein I had that feeling of doom that I would never be warm again, it has been mild.  The snow is almost melted in my backyard, which is odd.  Perhaps the apocalypse is upon us?  I can think of no other explanation. 

Other things I cannot think of an explanation for: why I thought it was a good idea to apply nailpolish five minutes before I needed to leave the house, thus ruining the nailpolish application the second I put my coat on; why I have had Pinball Wizard stuck in my head for days only to magically have it disappear and be replaced by Rasputin; why there is an audience for such shows featuring people who live in swamps, or who are crowded in their houses because they cannot stop purchasing on-sale toilet paper, or who dress their young daughters up for beauty pageants; why people take their dog-hating dogs to off-leash parks, and then become defensive when my dog-loving dog goes to greet their dogs – why not just leash your dog and walk it around the block?; and why I am insanely craving popcorn at ten in the morning and I also feel like bursting into uncontrollable tears and/or curling up in bed and wallowing in sadness?

There may be an explanation for the last one.  Rah rah Rasputin.  Lover of the Russian queen.  They put some poison into his wine.

Related: can a tsarina really be referred to as a queen?  I know that it was the Russian royal family, but is a tsarina and a queen the same thing?

Completely unrelated: when I was a kid I loved watching The Price is Right.  If I could time travel, I would totally go back to the early 80s and I would be a contestant on that show.  Ideally, I would be wearing a tube top.  I would get to play Plinko – and I would get all the chips because I would know which cost more, a case of Rice-a-Roni or an electric kettle.  I would spin the wheel – and, even if I didn’t win the $10,000, I would still be the first to choose my showcase showdown which would include: an RV, a dinette set, and a trip to lovely Myrtle Beach.  I would get inappropriately hugged by Bob Barker, and I would scream and wave my arms around a lot in excitement.  Perhaps I would even fall on the floor – I don’t know.  I haven’t gotten that far in my time-travel fantasy.

When I was a kid I used to think it would be so cool to live in the 1800’s; maybe I would work on my embroidery sampler all day, or perhaps write things on my slate with my slate pencil, and I would be excused from excessive physical activity since running or sports would put a serious strain on my corsets.  Now I just think that it seems kind of icky, living with no running water and no toilets – I don’t even like camping, at campgrounds WITH running water and toilets – and also my embroidery ability, like my ability to sew on buttons, is extremely hampered by my inability to put a piece of thread in a needle and not have it completely tangled in seconds.  Also I am unable to sew anything without crying.  So if I were to time travel, it would definitely be to be a contestant on The Price is Right.  Wouldn’t you just love a new dinette set?  Or – OR – a NEW! CAR!

While I’m at it, maybe I would time travel to be one of Barker’s Beauties!  I could walk along the stage in my super high heels with unlikely and impractical “camping wear” (i.e., Daisy Duke shorts and a plaid shirt tied at the waist) with a giant smile, showcasing the grand prize of a recreational vehicle.  Only for a day, though – I would like to blot out the whole Bob Barker creepy grossness. 

If you could time travel, where would you go?

The fashion police are coming.

Posted on by

“Hey Mom!” Jake said, out of nowhere, “I’m sexy and I know it!”

I never quite know how to respond to such inappropriate statements. It’s like when two-year-old Mark told my mother that he had no money, so he couldn’t get no ho’s. Or when Jake informed my mother, in one afternoon, that a) he wasn’t going to be a chump, he was going to get a prenup, and b) “penis” was another word for “dink”. My poor mother. One would think that the solution to this problem would be for me to stop listening to such inappropriate music. Alas.

 


Also, have you actually listened to “I’m Sexy and I Know It”? It is one of the funniest songs I have ever heard. I mean really: “I work out!  I work out!”  I have no idea if this was meant to be ironic or not, but I kind of love it.



Speaking of being sexy and knowing it, I received my O Magazine the other day – do NOT judge me, we all have our vices – and there is a whole section on how to wear the new trends in denim.  Now, I have recently adopted jeggings as part of my wardrobe, which I had previously decried as a plague upon society, so I will tread lightly here.  Still, the first trend described was – wait for it – coloured denim.  Adam Glassman, I am deeply disappointed in you.  COLOURED DENIM.  The question posed was “What do I wear with the new pastel jeans?”  Here’s my answer: not applicable, since seafoam jeans are a travesty.  Some of you might raise your eyebrows in a what does she know, she lives in black and throws in charcoal for colour, but seriously.  It is not a good idea to don lilac and/or seafoam and/or peach pants of any fabric, unless you are in a retirement home and you are coordinating those with floral nylon blouses and plastic jewellery of the same colour family.  I may be biased, but I’m only trying to save others from the fate that I suffered in the early nineties, when I wore purple and/or forest green jeans to the bar, along with a black bodysuit – remember bodysuits? – and my spiral permed hair. 

Adam then goes on to recommend ways to wear coated jeans, which, for those of you not in the know, as I was prior to reading this magazine, coated jeans are a substitute for leather pants. 

Sorry, I needed to take a break for a minute, just from typing the words “leather pants”.  I don’t want to get into any rock star/ I am the Lizard King kind of discussion.  Let’s just agree that putting tight, super-shiny materials on your thighs is not a good idea, not if wearing flattering clothing is of importance.  We should have all learned this lesson in the eighties.  And even if you can pull off wearing leather pants, the question is, should you?  I mean, if you are lucky enough to be in the 1%, it is guaranteed that something else would look much better.  Just say no to leather pants or, apparently, coated jeans. 

This is not the first time I have been disappointed by Adam Glassman, nor, likely, will it be the last.  Remember a few years ago when he announced that the majority of shorts for women were hideous and unflattering and wearing them was akin to fashion suicide?  I privately agreed with this sentiment, but later he bowed under intense pressure from Oprah’s shorts-loving fans and amended his statement.  STICK WITH IT, ADAM, I thought.  I realize this is contrary to my hypocritical adoption of jeggings, but still.  Most shorts for women are hideous and unflattering.  It’s about time we realize this and demand better looking shorts for all women.  Power to the people!

All of which is to say: just say no.  Say no to coloured denim.  Say no to leather or leather-look pants.  And for the love of fashion, just say no to mix-and-match denim.

Give your mother a kiss or I’ll kick your teeth in.

Posted on by

Happy Robbie Burns Day!  I was telling the boys about Robbie Burns Day today, explaining the celebratory nature – in a modified way – and about their Scottish ancestry.  Jake was getting more and more agitated and more and more defiant about it, when he burst out “We are not in Scotland, Mom!  We are in Canada.  WE ARE CANADIAN.”

Good point.  Also I have to admit the only thing I do on Robbie Burns Day is look up YouTube videos of Mike Myers in So I Married an Axe Murderer and walk around singing Bay City Rollers songs and Do You Think I’m Sexy in a Scottish accent.  I’m probably putting my ancestors to shame.  It’s not like I’m heading over to the Legion to eat haggis, get drunk on Scotch, and get into a brawl with someone from a different clan, like a good Scottish lassie. 

Haggis.  You have to hand it to the Scots, they have cornered the market on the world’s worst cuisine.  Scottish cuisine is the absolute bottom of the global barrel.  Second is probably Norweigan – and hey, I’m Scottish-Norweigan so I can really vouch for this.  Boiled potatoes!  Fish balls!  And I’m very sorry to offend all of you haggis and/or lutefisk fans, but what the hell?  Was everyone drunk and did those dishes really seem like a good idea at the time?  Someone very kindly mentioned to me recently that if I wanted, I could get vegetarian haggis, which honestly seems like the third-most-awful food item in the world. 

Do you ever wonder how kind of bizarre cultural things got their start?  Like, for example, bagpipes.  Actually, I can probably guess how bagpipe music got its start but it’s a grim picture so I won’t go there.  Do people honestly enjoy bagpipe music or is it one of those things that you intellectually think you should enjoy because of your ancestry, but emotionally and viscerally you loathe it?  Is it like the recorder – intellectually you realize that elementary aged children are taught the recorder because of its lightweight size and inexpensiveness, but the sound of it, my god, the sound of it.  There is nothing like being next door to a classroom full of recorder-playing fifth graders.  Did I mention that I’m starting to get ready for the next book fair, which is next door to the music room?  Alcoholic donations welcome.  Also?  Ear plugs.

Because of the melting streets and the filth on my windshield causing me to be actually unable to see out my windshield, which seems like a liability somehow, I washed the car today.  That is a MAN’S job, people.  Anyway, I manned up and took my filthy minivan to the carwash, and beside it an apartment complex is being erected (heh) and there was a giant, cavernous hole dug, filled with various heavy machinery.  It made me supremely nostalgic.  There was a time when I would walk my boys in their double stroller to construction sites, and they would sit there, fascinated, for HOURS on end.  Jake was one, and he would clap his little hands and say “Diggies!  Diggies!  Jake happy!  Happy!”  We spent our days that way, our endless unscheduled days, wandering around the neighbourhood looking at buses and machinery, and playing farm and blocks and trains, and now suddenly they are gone most of the day and when they are home they are involved in their own little lives that often do not involve me at all, and one day they are going to be bringing their recorders home to practice and suddenly I am wallowing in Robbie Burns Day melancholy.  Just like a good Scottish lassie.

How To Not Let Yoga Wreck Your Body

Posted on by

The New York Times recently published an article entitled How Yoga Can Wreck Your Body, spurring outrage throughout the yoga community, insofar as yogis can actually be outraged.  For me, I read the article and had a number of reactions and feelings, so much so that I needed some time to organize my thoughts. The general message of the article highlights the growing number of yoga-related injuries and concludes that the vast majority of people should steer clear of yoga altogether.

I consider myself to be a yogi, no matter how pretentious that sounds.  I have practiced Mysore-style Ashtanga yoga for almost five years.  I have never sustained an injury.  My initial reaction to the article was that anything – anything – can wreck your body if you let your ego get in the way.  I’m in good shape, but I’m not a runner; if I suddenly started running 10K a day, assuming that I purchased running shoes, which I do not currently own, you can bet I would injure myself, pending my not collapsing and dying from that much cardio.  I mean, I am someone who ended up in the ER from playing recreational slo-pitch.  Any kind of physical activity can be injurious if you are not aware of your own body and your own limitations, or in my case, if you take a line drive to the throat. 

I have known people to injure themselves performing yoga postures, it’s true.  I know people with tight hips forcing themselves into lotus, blowing out their knees.  I have known people to do one of those dreadful hot yoga classes, overstretch and tear a hamstring.  Shoulders, necks, backs: I’ve known people to injure themselves doing certain postures.

If you try this in a “hot yoga” class you may tear your hamstring.  But that doesn’t mean you can’t practice yoga.

The Primary Series of Ashtanga is known as the “healing series”, something I truly believe because it healed me.  So why is yoga wrecking bodies, as the article suggests?

If you have back problems, don’t do backbends.  You can still practice yoga.

First, I think we need to address the matter of semantics.  Differences in connotations and personal interpretations can really fire up an argument.  I can tell you I used to get irrationally annoyed when people would refer to their toddlers’ daycare centre as “school”.  Honestly, did it matter what anyone called it?  Did it make a difference?  No.  But yet I would be bothered always by the switch in title.

And this is why simply using the word “yoga” in such a sweeping way bothers me.  What I think of as yoga and what the article is talking about are two very different things.

When I first started at my studio, a teacher said to me “There is a difference between going to yoga classes and having a yoga practice.”  And there, exactly, is the point.  Going to a yoga class and treating it as a kick ass workout – that is where the injuries happen.  Competition, ego, and envy are injury instigators.  Pressure from inferior teachers who don’t know individual bodies and limitations leads to injuries.  Attempting difficult or complicated postures in a crowded, sweaty room without first obtaining the proper knowledge, strength, and flexibility is an injury waiting to happen.  Turning your attention outward instead of inward, not paying attention to your body and what it is telling you, letting what happened yesterday affect your feelings about today can lead to pain and injury.

You can’t learn this in a led class.  You need a teacher to help you, one-on-one. 
But that doesn’t mean you can’t practice yoga.

In Mysore-style Ashtanga, students practice the sequence of postures at their own pace with a teacher to assist and adjust them properly.  The benefit of this style is that you do not go past your own limitations; you do not move to the next posture until you can properly and safely perform the previous postures.  The teacher deems you to be ready when you are ready.  The teacher works with you one-on-one and learns your body and your strengths and weaknesses.  As an example, here is a video showing this style of yoga (fun fact: I am wearing a pale pink top and light grey tights – can you spot me?)

But posture – or asana – is only one of eight limbs of Ashtanga.  Only one.  Of utmost importance is the limb of ahimsa, which means non-harming.  This includes non-harming to ones’ self.  My beloved teacher is known to say “Do this posture at the expense of absolutely nothing.”  Taking this advice eliminates the possiblity of yoga wrecking your body.  He also says “You want to do this your whole life.”  I do.  So I draw my attention inward.

The other limbs include breath control, inner peace and inner observation, and living ethically.  It doesn’t really matter if you can hold your leg behind your head then float back to chaturanga if you roll up your mat and resume your life as an asshole.  That’s not yoga.  Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, the Guruji of Ashtanga yoga, said that yoga is for ALL people, except for lazy people.  I really believe that.  I have a friend who is featured in this video; he is amazing, he has a beautiful practice, I am inspired to be in his presence.  But also inspiring are all the people I see every day, every morning at yoga practice, all those people in the previous video.  Our practices all look different; our bodies are all different, but we are all there, with intention.  From the very beginner who struggles through sun salutations to the very advanced practitioner who takes my breath away with their physical stamina; those people who are true to themselves and their practice, those who live an ethical, compassionate life, those who cultivate patience and kindness, those people are true yogis and are inspirational, always.

Practicing asana is important – it gives concentration, it gives physical strength and stamina, but of greater importance is to live the yoga, to take it off the mat and live a life of compassion and inner reflection and non-harming – to others and to yourself.  That is yoga, true yoga, and it cannot wreck your body.